


gravity well

by zxanthe



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: ANYWAY hope yall enjoy, Alternate Universe - Lawyers, Body Worship, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Lawyers, Lingerie, Office Sex, Porn With Plot, Table Sex, i mean we've got some context yall, it's not like we're just dropping in on them mid-fuck, sssort of???, this was fun to write, we are being polite about this k
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-10-25 04:12:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17717804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zxanthe/pseuds/zxanthe
Summary: Sometimes she’ll catch him looking at her, and their eyes will meet for an instant before his stomach lurches and he has to look away. In that brief span of time it feels like her eyes are drilling into him, disassembling his soul into all its little component parts for her to scrutinize and condemn at her leisure. Par for the course for a former prosecutor, he supposes. Doesn’t make it any less frightening, or electrifying.(He’s always been a thrill seeker at heart, going after things he shouldn’t.)





	gravity well

**Author's Note:**

> written for a prompt on tumblr: _anonymous asked: 32 33 or 40 for soma for nsfw prompts????_  
>  _ **32.** Lingerie_  
>  _ **33.** Body Worship_  
>  _ **40.** On a desk/table_

There is something vast lurking behind the green glass windows of Maka Albarn’s eyes. Soul sees it move, sometimes, when her mind is far away, calculating with uncanny precision the best way to untangle the latest knot in the impossible convoluted web of circumstances and events that make up this particular case. It’s uncanny, really, the way she can twist things to suit her purposes, the way she never fucking quits, like a dog with a bone, and then turns out to be right all along. It’s at once ridiculous and impressive to him and makes him feel curiously small, despite the fact that she only comes up to his collarbones and is slightly built besides. He catches himself watching her more often than he’d like to admit, trying to divine the true essence of the woman, to find out what powers such a blazing and indefatigable determination.

(The pencil skirts she wears, which highlight her round and firm-looking ass in a way that should be illegal, don’t hurt either.)

Sometimes she’ll catch him looking at her, and their eyes will meet for an instant before his stomach lurches and he has to look away. In that brief span of time it feels like her eyes are drilling into him, disassembling his soul into all its little component parts for her to scrutinize and condemn at her leisure. Par for the course for a former prosecutor, he supposes. Doesn’t make it any less frightening, or electrifying.

(He’s always been a thrill seeker at heart, going after things he shouldn’t.)

In the lobby, the grandfather clock starts chiming. Soul counts twelve. That means there are exactly 38 hours until the trial. He picks up his coffee and drains it.

A few seats down the table, Kid sighs and runs a hand through his hair. It’s thoroughly rumpled by how many times he’s done that, a jarring contrast to its usual impeccable neatness. He’s surrounded by stacks of folders, 6 high at minimum. He’s got dark circles under his eyes. It looks like he’s aged a good decade in the space of the seventeen plus hours he’s undoubtedly been awake.

Soul clears his throat. “We should call it a day, yeah?”

Maka’s eyes flick to his over her laptop. “You think so?”

“I’ve been staring out the window for the past ten minutes instead of actually doing anything. I think I’m done.”

Kid closes his eyes and rubs his temples. “I second your motion, Soul. The trial is very soon. Sleep is more crucial than ever to keeping a clear head at this juncture, what with those _vultures_ flashing their cameras and squawking every chance they get.”

Maka looks at Kid, and her eyes soften. “You’re right. We’ve been working past midnight every day this week.” She gets to her feet and stretches. Even across the table, Soul can hear the bones in her spine pop. “Go home, boss,” she tells him. “Soul and I can close up shop tonight.”

Kid smiles wryly. “Thank you both,” he says. He puts a few folders in his briefcase. “Until tomorrow, then. Good night.”

“’Night,” they chorus, and then it’s just him and her, alone in the room.

They’d commandeered the smaller meeting room in the office for the trial. One wall is entirely glass, with a view of the city outside. Soul slumps back in his chair and looks at the moon hanging above the skyscrapers with half-lidded eyes.

“Do you really believe Strickland’s innocent?” he asks abruptly, not looking at her.

“Sounds like someone’s been watching the news lately. Word to the wise: don’t.”

“I can’t _not,”_ he grumbles. “This fucking trial is everywhere. Nancy goddamn Grace talked about it on TV.”

“Yeah, and? None of that matters. Our job is to keep this guy out of prison, so that’s what we’re gonna do.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He gets to his feet with a groan. “Just stressful as all hell, that’s all, and we’ll look like idiots at best if he’s guilty. So, you know, no pressure or anything.” He watches as she starts collecting papers. Strands of hair have escaped her bun, and she isn’t wearing shoes. It’s odd, seeing her stripped of her usual makeup and bluster and energy. Seeing her as she must see herself in the mirror when she is in her apartment, alone, with no pretensions, no need to prove herself.

She looks up and meets his gaze. “What?”

His heart skips a beat, like always. He clears his throat. “You look tired, that’s all.”

“Brilliant observation,” she quips. “Are you going to help me with these or not?”

“You’re ruthless, you know that?”

“These files won’t organize themselves.”

They work in silence. Soul is acutely aware of her presence, their aloneness in the office. He wonders what she would do if he patted her on the back goodbye. If he tucked her hair behind her ear. If he leaned forward and peered into the vastness behind her green eyes and kissed her.

He’s running on too much caffeine and too little sleep. He should stop thinking about what kind of sound his coworker would make if he bit the soft-looking lily-white skin of her neck and eat some actual goddamn dinner instead. He hopes he’s not blushing.

They finish in no time at all, or too much time. Soul peers down the hallway. Every other room is dark, locked. “Well, guess that’s everything.”

“Yep.” She flicks off the light, plunging everything into sudden darkness. He turns around and he almost jumps out of his skin. She’s standing _right there,_ looking up at him solemnly. Suddenly he’s more awake than he’s been all evening.

“To answer your question,” she states, and her voice is hushed, like they’re in church or something, “I _know_ he’s guilty, because a long time ago we were best friends and his dad was a _piece of shit._ The bastard had it coming. Blake doesn’t deserve to rot forever for trying to do the right thing.”

He stares at her, openmouthed.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I just - I want someone else to know what’s at stake.” She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. “I can’t tell Kid, and you’re the closest thing I have to a friend here and oh God if this gets out – “

“Maka,” he says quietly. Her mouth snaps shut with an audible click, and it’s then he sees how truly, profoundly stressed she is, how close she is to cracking. Soul steels himself, and then reaches across the distance between them to pull her in for a hug.

She trembles at his touch. He rubs her back. She’s warm, and solid, and when she hugs him back his stomach does somersaults at the ardent pressure of her arms and it’s all he can do to keep his breathing even. Her head fits so perfectly under his chin. When she looks at him he nearly stops breathing altogether. Their noses are scant millimeters apart. Her eyes loom large in his vision, pulling him in like twin gravity wells, filled with unknowable things.

She kisses him. He falls. Their bags drop to the floor in unison, forgotten. Her mouth is warm, and small, and she smells like strawberries. His heart is beating so hard in his chest. When their tongues meet he shivers with the force of the lightning that arcs through him. Is he dreaming? Is his body in fact slumped over sleeping at the table behind them, so ground down by particulars it’s fleeing into its own imaginings? He doesn’t want to know the answer, instead clutching her tighter to himself. Tangles his hand in her hair.  Eternities pass before she breaks the kiss, before they stare at each other, breathing raggedly. Her hair’s even messier. Her blouse is all rumpled. She’s never looked prettier, he thinks dazedly.

“We shouldn’t,” she whispers. “Here, I mean.”

“No?” He bends down. Mouths at her neck.

“No,” she sighs. Her hands come up and start fumbling at the buttons of his shirt. “No no nooooh,” she moans, because he’s just bitten her neck. “Nnn. Someone could. Could walk in.”

He hums. It comes out more of a growl. “Makes it fun.”

She nips his ear, hard. “We’ll p-probably get fired.”

His breath hitches and he gives her ass a squeeze. “High stakes, baby.”

She runs her hands across his naked chest. He shivers. Her palms are soft, her touch exploratory. He presses a quick kiss to her temple.

She finds his scar. Traces it, from diaphragm to shoulder back down to where it disappears beneath the waistband of his slacks. “What happened here?” she murmurs.

He grimaces. “Motorcycle accident. I was a stupid kid. Took a year before I could move right.”

“Christ.”

“Taught me a lesson,” he mumbles. “Needed it.”

“Mm.”

She leans in and kisses his scar where it begins at his shoulder with lips as light as feathers. He tilts his head back against the doorframe. She kisses it some more, down its length to his hips. He’s breathing hard. She looks up at him. Then, slowly, sensually, she runs her tongue back up the length of it. His knees go a little wobbly and he nearly blows his load right then and there. The skin is still more sensitive than the rest of him. To have _Maka Albarn_ lick it like that makes his brain fucking melt.

“Hnn,” he says intelligently, before swooping down, kissing her hard on the mouth, and then picking her up in his arms and carrying her to the table. She’s surprisingly solid. He sets her down carefully and kisses the blush that’s visible on her face even with just the moonlight and the hazy glow from the streetlamps below.

“Hold on,” she mumbles. She reaches down to unzip her skirt. The center of Soul’s universe suddenly becomes Maka’s creamy white thighs and the garter belts stretched across them. Beneath the belts is a pair of lacy black panties, achingly sexy, deliciously sophisticated. She tosses the skirt to the floor. Then she starts working on her blouse. Underneath is a matching bra that’s mostly straps and not much else, molding perfectly to the curves of her small, round breasts and connecting to intricate roses placed coyly over her nipples. She shakes her hair free from its bun. He stares, stupefied. She smirks at the look on his face and hops off the table.

She’s fucking jacked. Lean, corded muscles wrap around her slender bones. She could probably absolutely kick his ass. Her thighs alone could crush him. The lacy lingerie brings out every curve of her, and when she turns around he nearly loses his mind. Her ass is covered by only two slender stripes of fabric stretched taut across each cheek, complimented by the intricate lace of the belt around her waist. The stockings highlight her long, slender legs, tapering in impossibly elegant ankle bones. She’s got a mole on one slim, graceful hip. Her torso is toned, her arms are sculpted. The shell of her ear where her hair’s tucked behind it takes his breath away. In the curve of her neck he can see the angels. In the swoop of her collarbones he can see God.

He steps forward almost reverently. “You’re beautiful,” he says, his voice lower, rougher.

She smiles. “I’d hope so.”

“Did.” His voice catches. He has to clear his throat. He looks at her again, and takes a deep breath. “Did you plan this?”

“A little.”

 _“Just_ a little?” He puts his hands on her shoulders. Moves them down her arms, feeling the power contained beneath the smooth skin. He grabs her hands in his, and then lifts them up to his lips. Her fingers are slim, and delicate-looking. She’s got calluses on her knuckles. He kisses every one. When he looks up, her lips are parted just the littlest bit.

Gently, he urges her backwards, until she’s sitting at the edge of the table. He gets to his knees. Kisses the tops of each of her feet through her stockings. Palms her kneecaps. She is, he thinks distantly, a work of art. A statue, sculpted out of the finest marble. Or a violin sonata, one which his piano cannot possibly be worthy of accompanying and yet here he is anyway, stumbling through the chords and shimmering arpeggios and rapid octave leaps. She would be in G major, he thinks. The key makes him think of open skies and too-bright sunshine. Of heaven.

(It’s been a long time since he’s been to church.)

He moves his hands up to knead her thighs and then nuzzles between them, pressing kisses to the soft skin of their insides as he goes. When he reaches her crotch he pushes his mouth against it, separated only by the thinnest skein of fabric. She smells intoxicating. He gently moves her panties aside. When he licks her folds she groans and leans back on her elbows, canting her hips up towards him. Lightning forks through him at her obvious need, for _him._

He fumbles at her belts with sudden intensity to free the panties beneath. He slides them off and then presses his face flush against her, slips his tongue up in her. His dick _throbs_ at the noise she makes. He digs his fingers into her thighs. _Keep it together,_ he tells himself. He finds the nub of her clit and gets to work, licking and sucking, palming her ass as she writhes around him, her moans getting higher and louder, her breaths faster and shakier, until she comes undone with a series of little mewling cries that nearly prove his undoing. He gives her a parting kiss and then straightens, trembling with the force of his arousal. He wipes his mouth and looks at her sprawled on the lacquered surface of the table, her chest heaving and her skin sparkling with sweat in the dimness and her stockinged legs splayed apart limply over the edge of the table. Maka Albarn, undone, by him. His pants are unbearably tight.

He puts his hands on her waist. Leans down, kisses the smooth and impossibly soft skin of her belly, kisses his way up to bury his face in her breasts, still constrained by the bra. A moment later, he feels hands carding gently through his hair, and when he looks up all his insides shudder because she’s looking at him and there is such tender warmth in her gaze it takes his breath away.

She arches her back and reaches behind herself to peel away the bra. Her breasts are lovely, crowned with small pink nipples. He takes one in his mouth and relishes the little hitch in her breath it produces. His hand comes up to palm her other breast. Then he bites her, and the sharp little gasp makes him do it again, and again, until he’s reached her throat and she’s squirming and moaning beneath him. Her legs wrap around his waist and squeeze and instinctively he bucks into her, belatedly realizing he’s still wearing pants. With shaking fingers he sheds them, and his underwear, until he stands naked before her.

“Come here,” she murmurs, extending her arms. He obeys. Her thighs come up around his waist, and he trembles at the force of them. When he enters her, she sighs, and arches her back to press herself against him. He kisses her, and she him, openmouthed, hungry. He loses himself in her, in the salty taste of her sweat-slick skin and her sweet tight warmth and the deliciously white-hot lines of pain her nails trace as they pierce the skin of his back; her tongue against his, her teeth at his neck.

 _“Yes,”_ she murmurs, breath hot in his ear, _“right there,”_ and her nails dig into him and her whole body tenses up and with every thrust of his her moans get louder and louder in an explosive crescendo and it’s all he can do to keep the rhythm, to hit the right notes. She comes for the second time with a loud cry, and the way she ripples around him, the way her body shakes, at last send him over the edge. His own orgasm isn’t like any he’s ever felt before; for a moment he is nothing but white-hot sensation, pure undiluted pleasure pulsing through him.

When at last he returns to himself and regains enough coordination to pull away and look at her, he sees his own contented astonishment in her face. They look at each other and then start laughing, breathless, happy, and he can’t help but kiss her smile, over and over because she’s never smiled like that as long as he’s known her and it is a precious thing.

“Thank you,” she murmurs after, once they’ve cleaned up and wobbled back into their clothes.

“No, thank _you,”_ he tells her, and impulsively he kisses the top of her head, still high on endorphins and _her.  
_

They lock up the office and take the elevator down together. When they burst out into the cold outside the building, they pause and turn to look at one another. Maka’s hair, unbound, stirs loosely in the slight wind that’s blowing. There’s still a faint flush in her cheeks. Her eyes are tired, but bright.

“Want me to walk you?”

“I’ll be okay. Drive safe,” she murmurs.

“Yeah. You too.” He looks at her, haloed by the streetlight. He wants to take her home with him. He wants to wake up next to her, and cook her pancakes, and watch a movie. He swallows all this down. “Well. Good night,” he says instead, gruffly.

She smiles, like she can sense what he’s thinking. “Good night,” she says, and after a beat they turn and walk down the sidewalk in opposite directions, into the night.


End file.
